Maybe it's a language thing, she thought, fighting a twinge of unease. They don't understand English.

    But when the van turned east onto the ramp to the Manhattan Bridge, the unease bloomed into alarm.

    "This isn't the way to Mister Osala's. Where are you taking me?"

    They continued to stare and say nothing.

    Jack found Kicker HQ in chaos.

    Obviously too late to sneak in behind the Kakureta Kao's boys and spirit Dawn away.

    It had taken half a forever for the cab to show up, and then the guy refused to drive him to Manhattan. Jack had offered him all the cash on him but the driver would take him as far as the ferry and that was it. So he'd had to wait for the ferry, then find a cab to bring him back here.

    All for nothing.

    Looked like some sort of call had gone out because the Lodge building was crammed with Kickers, all looking shocked and furious. He scanned the crowd and spotted the blond guy in the work shirt who'd bummed a ciggy earlier.

    He sidled over and said, "Dude, what happened?"

    The guy looked at him like he'd just asked what year it was. "Where've you been?"

    Jack shrugged. "Grabbing some food, downing a few beers. I left the place quiet with a few folks outside, now I wander back and find a ton of folks inside. What gives?"

    "We were invaded."

    Jack let his jaw drop. "What?"

    He nodded. "Bunch of ninja types worked over Hank and Menck and Darryl, and fucking killed Haber."

    "You're putting me on, right?"

    "Swear by the Kicker Man."

    "What the hell for?"

    "Hank's sword. Makes sense: Jap sword, Jap sneak attack, just like Pearl Harbor. Killed Haber with it and disappeared."

    "So where are they? The hospital?"

    "Nah. Carson's a paramedic so he's sewing up their heads. Says they look worse than they are." He shook his head. "Probably gonna have to call the cops about Haber, though nobody wants to do that." His face reddened. "Man, I ever get my hands on those fuckers—"

    "You do, you let me know, 'cause I want a piece of them too."

    Jack wound his way through the throng to the front steps where he stood and stared at nothing.

    Timing was everything and he'd blown that. The place was packed with Kickers. Even on the outside chance he could find Dawn, he'd never be able to sneak her out.

    Something he'd just heard nagged at him.

    Man, I ever get my hands on those fuckers…

    Yeah. No doubt they all felt that way.

    He made his way back inside and wove through the first-floor corridors, checking room after room, looking for one with a computer—and for Dawn. Not that he expected to find her. They wouldn't keep her on the first floor—too easy to escape. They'd hold her upstairs or in the basement. And if anyone asked what he was doing, he'd say he was looking for a bathroom.

    As expected, no Dawn, but he did find a dark office with a monitor glowing on the desk. He eased in and closed the door behind him. The screensaver was the Septimus Lodge sigil bouncing around a black background.

    He wiggled the mouse and looked for Google Earth on the desktop but didn't see it. Checked the program list—not there either. Didn't have time to download it, so he went to Flashearth instead. He typed "staten island, ny" into the little search box and was immediately rewarded with a satellite view.

    And yeah, the cabbie had been right—the Fresh Kills landfill was visible from space. He coned down until he found the roof of a rectangular building sitting in an empty area with a clear view of the mounds. Had to be it. He put the crosshairs in the center of the roof and copied the latitude and longitude coordinates down to the second. Then he closed Explorer and rejoined the Kickers.

    Now… how to get the word out? He couldn't stand here and shout it, because then they'd want to know how he knew. He needed anonymity—like phoning it in. Problem was he didn't have a number for Hank or the Lodge or any Kicker for that matter.

    But he knew his own.

    He edged over to a side table in the foyer and slipped his TracFone from his pocket. After memorizing a number from his call history, he erased everything and thumbed the volume to max. Then he slipped the phone onto the table and headed for the door.

    Once outside, he hurried up toward Allen Street. After cadging some change from an all-night bodega along the way, he found a pay phone. He called his TracFone.

    Nearly a dozen rings before someone picked up.

    "Yeah?"

    "Hey, I know who raided your place and I know where you can find them."

    "The fuck is this?"

    "The guy who's gonna help you get even with those ninja pricks. I'm gonna tell you zackly where they are, so listen up."

    Jack heard the guy yelling away from the phone. "Hey, everybody shut the fuck up! This could be important." Then he came back to Jack. "Whatcha got?"

    "Write this down: They're hiding on Staten Island and I can give you the exact coordinates of where they are."

    "Coordinates?"

    Jeez.

    "Yeah. Numbers you can plug into a car's GPS and it'll take you to their front door. Got a pen and paper?"

    Jack heard the guy yelling for paper. After a few seconds he came back. "Okay. Shoot."

    Jack gave him the coordinates and made him repeat them.

    "How do I know you ain't pullin my chain?"

    "If I'm lyin I'm dyin. Check with Hank. Suggest he send one guy out there. If he finds a buncha Japs in a two-story building, that's the place. Then you can send out a raiding party for some payback—and Hank's sword."

    "The sword's there?"

    "Guaranteed."

    Jack hung up, then started dialing again.

    Might as well make it a party.

    Hideo awoke with a start. Someone was knocking on his door. He leaped from his bed and opened it to find one of the night security men standing there.

    "Sorry to bother you, Takita-san, but someone is on one of the specialuse phones asking for the man who wants the katana. I wasn't sure—"

    Hideo pushed past him and ran for the stairs. He'd used one of Kaze's pay-as-you-go phones to call the number on the flyer; whoever it was had used that number to call back.

    This could be important.

    He found the phone sitting apart from the others. He snatched it up.

    "Hello?"

    "Hi. Are you still interested in that ugly, beat-up old katana?"

    He recognized the voice. The same as yesterday, the one who set up the meeting in that park. Hideo had suspected he might be the ronin, working for the previous owner, but had no way to tell. The voice sounded similar to the man he'd faced in the Gerrish apartment, but not so easy to tell over a cell phone. When no one approached the clerk they had set up with a decoy katana, Hideo suspected that the ronin had spied the trap and stayed away.

    "It is possible, yes."

    "I know where you can find it."

    "Why would you wish to tell me? You no longer want it?"

    "Let's just say priorities have changed, and maybe I'd rather see you with the blade than the Kakureta Kao."

    The unexpected Japanese words stunned Hideo into silence.

    Kakureta Kao… he hadn't heard them mentioned in a long, long time. How did this gaijin know about them?

    "The Kakureta Kao no longer exist."

    "Wrong. They've got a temple on Staten Island, and in that temple is the crudded-up katana you want so badly. Here are the exact coordinates of the building."